Boys Will Be
by Diana Lucifera
Summary: Kyle loses yet another bet to Cartman. Cartman/Kyle pre-slash.


Okay, confession time. I finished this derpy little one-shot and then instantly went off and wrote a much larger sequel which my friend Nerdy Leo has taken to calling "the pedo-maker." And yes, I'll be posting that as soon as I get it edited. XD Warning for forced crossdressing. I don't own South Park, or anything of much value. If you sue me, you're going to be very disappointed.

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Sheila didn't even notice it until Ike started laughing. Startled, she put down her spatula hurriedly and turned around to see her oldest son still hanging awkwardly in the doorway, casting a red-faced glare at his cackling adopted brother. A second look-over made the source of Ike's amusement and Kyle's embarrassment perfectly clear. Instead of his usual loose-fitting slacks, Kyle was wearing what appeared to be a teal mini-skirt.

Sheila blinked. The sight was so utterly anachronistic that she was having trouble processing it. The skirt hung awkwardly from Kyle's twelve year old boy-hips, and he'd obviously gone about wearing it in the most half-assed way possible. Not only was he still wearing his well-worn orange coat, but he'd thrown on his usual dirty sneakers as well, mismatched socks bunched up at his ankles with the distinct air of someone not used to having them seen. The miniskirt's cut was obviously intended for voluptuous and sculpted older women, and Kyle's pubescent chicken legs sprouted oddly from it, pale and lightly dusted with newly acquired red hairs. A flesh -colored band aid decorated one knee cap. He couldn't have looked more like a pre-teen boy wearing a skirt if he had tried. She blinked again.

"Kyle, what on _Earth_—?"

"Let me guess," interjected Ike, grinning. "Lose a bet?"

His brother nodded, flushing still deeper.

"Cartman?" prompted Ike, snickering.

Kyle made a face like he had just swallowed something unpleasant.

"Who else?" he spat.

Sheila's face twisted into its own grimace.

"You made _another_ bet with that boy? Kyle, how many times do I have to tell you—"

Kyle crossed his arms and huffed.

"But Mom—"

"No 'but's, Kyle! And if you think I'm letting you wear that to school—!"

Behind her, the skillet gave a threatening pop, and she turned back to it suddenly. Nudging the cooking sausage patties with her spatula, she took a deep breath. She'd had this discussion with Gerald before. According to him, the whole practice of humiliating each other through bets was a male bonding ritual in which Kyle had to participate. If she forbid him from doing whatever it was that he was being forced to do, Gerald had warned her, he would find some way to do it anyway or risk being rejected by his peers. It was a matter of pride, he said.

Bullshit. As far as she was concerned, the whole practice was juvenile and ridiculous. Still, she had promised to be less harsh with Kyle about the bets. She ground her teeth.

"You can't walk to the bus stop like that," she said, relenting. "You'll catch your death in that. Do you want to borrow some of my stockings, bubbe?"

Ike shrieked with laughter. Kyle smacked him on the shoulder before pulling a face at his mother.

"Mom, are you serious?"

Ike rubbed his shoulder, still chuckling.

"He'd probably rather die, anyway."

"IKE-!"

"Ike," Sheila interrupted sharply. "Why don't you go upstairs and see if your father's ready."

Her youngest son hopped up from the table.

"All right," he said, casting a final cheeky grin at his brother. "See you later, Kylina."

Kyle growled angrily, balling his hands into fists as he stomped over to the pantry, flinging the door open with enough force to bounce it back off the wall, deepening the handle-shaped dent that had been steadily growing there for years. Sheila frowned. Kyle might have gotten his temper from her, but she was starting to think he'd gotten a gambling problem from Gerald. It seemed like every week she was hearing about some bet or other between her son and the Cartman boy. One would assume Kyle would have learned his lesson after losing that bet when he was nine and being ordered to suck Eric Cartman's balls by a judge, but three years later and Sheila was still getting calls from now-Middle-School-Principle Mackey telling her that the two had gotten into some scuffle or other because of their betting antagonism.

Why, just last week, she'd arrived at the man's office to find that the two had nearly destroyed their cafeteria with one of their fights. Apparently, Kyle had lost some sort of bet concerning the South Park Cows and been forced to play Eric Cartman's dog for an entire school day. By all accounts, he had put up with the collar and leash grudgingly, but when Eric had tried to force him to eat his lunch off of a plate on the floor, Kyle had vaulted to his feet and punched him squarely in the jaw. Sheila really couldn't blame him.

"Mmkay, your son was using this, Mrs. Cartman," Mr. Mackey had said, fishing the leash and collar out of his desk. "I thought you, uh, I thought you might recognize it, mmkay."

Liane had taken it from him with an exaggerated frown.

"Eric, you know not to steal from Mommy," she'd said, wagging a finger. "Naughty."

Her son had mumbled a hollow sounding apology, staring resolutely at the wall behind her. Satisfied, she'd turned a vacant smile to the other occupants of the room, apparently oblivious to Sheila and Kyle's twin looks of horror.

"Well," she'd chirped pleasantly as she tucked the muzzle into her purse. "Boys _will_ be boys."

Sheila sighed, watching Kyle stalk from the pantry to the kitchen table, a box of Apple Jacks clenched tightly in his hand. The skirt fell only to about mid-thigh, and the fabric, something elastic and vaguely glossy, clung to Kyle's hips like cellophane. If Sheila'd had a daughter, she would never have allowed her out in it. Kyle sat down cautiously, frowning as the fabric stretched taut around his thighs, restricting his movement. Sheila watched him squirm around for a minute, attempting to get comfortable while he fixed his bowl. She had to ask.

"So, uh, where did you get the skirt?"

Kyle rolled his eyes.

"You'd have to ask Cartman," he said, stabbing at his cereal. "If he weren't so fat, I'd bet he wore it himself._ Freak_."

Considering how perfectly the colouring matched Kyle's usual attire, Sheila had a sneaking suspicion that Eric Cartman might have bought it specifically for this, but she wouldn't even think of saying that to her son.

"Bubala, I really wish you'd stay away from Eric Cartman," she said for what felt like the millionth time.

Kyle grimaced.

"It's not like I actually _like_ him, Mom," he said. "None of us do."

"Then why don't you just stop hanging out with him?"

Kyle frowned deeply into his cereal bowl.

"I dunno, Mom. That's... just the way it is."

"_Boys_," huffed Sheila, switching off the stove with a snap. "Kyle, you haven't had any of that milk yet; do you want some sausage?"

"No thanks, ma," he said, putting down his spoon. "Not really hungry. I think I'm going to go ahead and start walking to school."

"Kyle," tried Sheila again. "Are you sure I can't convince you to change?"

Kyle shook his head.

"Well, at least, ride with me and Ike. It's freezing out there."

"Sorry, mom," said Kyle, striding toward the kitchen door. "I told the guys I'd meet them at the bus stop."

As he bent to pick up the backpack he'd left waiting there the evening before, the mini-skirt practically creaked in protest. Sheila watched as it folded and creeped upward dangerously and was about to start in on the garment again when she caught a flash of something peeking from between Kyle's thighs. Something crimson and... lacy?

"Kyle, bubbe, are you wearing _girl's underwear_?"

Kyle turned a delicate shade of pink and, instead of answering, breathed angrily through his nose, shouldered his backpack, and left, slamming the door quickly behind him. By the time Sheila made her way across the kitchen to throw it open again, he'd broken into an awkward, stumbling run, casting panicked looks over his shoulder as if he expected his mother to rush out of the house and chase him down in the family SUV. Sheila almost – _almost_ – did just that, but at the last moment, heard the muffled sound of Gerald's voice echoing from the upstairs bathroom and, remembering her promise, managed to force herself to put down her keys and sink weakly into one of the kitchen chairs, instead. She took a few deep breaths and, then, casting an entreating glance toward the ceiling, shook her head.

"Oy vey."

She was really starting to wonder about that Cartman boy.


End file.
